


Arcade Fires

by orphan_account



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Gore, Light Angst, Other, Panic Attacks, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A part of him wants to give in- to let them finish him off where he stands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping and it shows, honestly. It's five-thirty in the morning and I just calmed down after a serious panic attack- decided to write out a vent thing.  
> I don't write often, especially not gore, so sorry if it's shit.

The intensity of it all nearly brought him to his knees.

Undead weren’t uncommon in the world they had, but this bunch seemed more rowdy than usual. All claws and shrieking, and Paul- A seasoned soldier of the Red Army- could barely keep them back with the firepower of two loaded AK-47s. Gunshots rang out through the crowded space, only seeming to aggravate them more. His shots weren’t landing and he knew, which wasn’t all that uncommon either.

They were clean-up crew, meaning fixing the mess their boss had made with his carelessness. He was only nineteen after all, and expecting Tord of all people to be perfect was just faulty judgement. Paul loved him like a son, really he did, but his decision-making skills wasn’t the best in certain situations. Taking out a few zombies really wasn’t that big of a deal.  
  
At least, he had hoped.

Currently, the small arcade was filled with noise. The few unbroken game cabinets buzzed with activity, and a mix of shots and screaming hung in the air like a fog. Paul could barely see as it was, the room was dark and filled with a mass of bodies, both dead and not quite. The only light emanating from flashes of gunfire and neon glares of games. All he could think of was getting _away_ , away from the flashing and sound and danger, but without a clear escape route for both him and his partner, it was simply an impossibility. Already skittish, the sheer gravity of the situation was overwhelming.

Cornered and snapping back to reality, vision adjusting partially to the dim light, he could barely make out the distinct figure of Patryk slumped against an arcade machine. Cold dread gripped his chest, and everything seemed to freeze. He couldn’t be _dead_ , could he?

He strained to see movement in the man, but all was still save for the hoard of monsters now heading straight for him. As if they could sense his shock, they were on him like flies to honey.

Firing a few shots into the crowd, he tried to force his way through the mass of zombies towards the man, brain clouded with panic. Paul was quickly forced back almost too easily, both by the sheer strength of the crowd and his own erratic movements. He can’t focus, he can’t think.

_“I have to get to him. We have to get out of here. I have to get to him-”_   burns through his mind on loop, any tangible thought shoved aside and discarded like garbage. Backing up as far as he can, only when he hits the cold wall of the arcade does he realize how royally fucked he is.  
Paul is alone in this, with his partner potentially dead on the other side of the room and his boss nowhere in earshot. He aims his gun and pulls the trigger in a last ditch effort to regain control of the situation.

_Click.  
_

The jammed rifle slips from his hands, hitting the stone beneath his boots with a hollow clatter. Claws tear at his coat, tear at his skin, and he can’t even bring himself to make a sound. A part of him wants to give in- to let them finish him off where he stands. A distant commotion is disregarded by both living and dead, and his voice catches in his throat.  
A searing pain causes the man’s legs to buckle under him. Sharp and dirty nails are scratching at his eye, clawing it out of him with the brute force of a feral animal. Paul can feel every gash, the socket splintering from the sheer power behind them. Blood pours down his cheek, hot and dripping, staining everything it touches. The entire right side of his face is shredded, his eye torn to bits and rushing down his face with the blood in waves.  
The concrete grinds against his neck as he twists in a futile attempt to try and escape the attack. More of them are on him now, with dozens close behind. They can’t get a good enough grip on the man to do irreparable damage to anything but his face, which doesn’t seem to help much. Screaming fills the arcade, and with a brief moment of clarity, he registers that it’s his own.

  
Paul’s vision flashes. He’s blacking out, the pain too much to handle. As he finally slides to the ground he distantly registers a commotion through the walls. Muffled voices, laughter. He can’t bring himself to say a word, can’t even bring himself to move. He bleeds out on the stone, unable to bring anything into focus.  
He’s not quite sure how long he lays there, the undead apparently taking a break from ruining him to follow the noise outside. Without the pounding of his heart in his ears and all the violence it is deathly calm.  
Across the room is the slouched body of Patryk- Status unknown- in a pool of his own blood. Gun kicked away and forgotten, most likely empty. As the sight in his remaining eye fades to black,  Paul dimly notes the sound of footsteps, and the feeling of being cold to the bone.


End file.
